— I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every Panda that wouldn't screw to save its species. I wanted to open the dump valves on oil tankers and smother all those French beaches I'd never see. I wanted to breathe smoke.
— Where'd you go, psycho boy?
— I felt like destroying something beautiful.
— Now promise me.
— Ok.
— You promise?
— Yeah, I promise.
— Promise.
— I just said, I promise! What...
— That's three times you promised.
"Sticking feathers up your butt," Tyler says, "does not make you a chicken."
[the narrator pulls a loose tooth out of his mouth]
— Fuck.
— Hey, even the Mona Lisa's falling apart.
Warning: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned. Tyler.
Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen. We don't need him! Fuck damnation, fuck redemption. First, you have to know, not fear... Know that some day, you're gonna die.
Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.
Not like death as a sad, downer thing, this was going to be death as a cheery, empowering thing.
Self-improvement is masturbation. Now, self-destruction…